


On Loss, Bad Friends, and Neon Lights

by skysonglark



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26377876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skysonglark/pseuds/skysonglark
Summary: A story about looking for catharsis, and also one written on the 8th of September, 2020, a wild day in blaseball. Featuring probably the only time Twitter has ever made anyone feel better.
Kudos: 4





	On Loss, Bad Friends, and Neon Lights

“It’s not like he’s dead, though, right?”

Not for the first time I wished Jacob would stop talking. Or a rift in spacetime would open underneath him and make him someone else’s problem.

Besides, you shouldn’t say that to Ziwa, of all people. I mean, come on.

Ziwa doesn’t do anything, just looks at their drink. You’d have to be actually paying attention to notice the droop in their spines.

Jacob, being Jacob, is not. “I mean, Summer’s a step up anyways. The team got lucky this round. Y’all might actually hit a ball once in a while.”

The rest of us are looking around like this is somebody else’s fault. It isn’t. Jacob’s been a member of our group for ages. I wish I was a faster thinker so I could figure out what to say before the moment passes.

Ziwa slides their chair out from the table. “When am I going to get down to Hades, Jake?”

Jacob blinks at them, still not really getting it. Somebody’s chair squeaks. Ziwa looks around at everyone, puts their drink down, and walks away.

It takes me longer than it should to go after them, leaving the awkward silence of the table. The bar is far too loud in comparison, the kind of loud where the words blur together into sheets of noise.

I find them outside, sitting on the concrete stairs of the neighbouring office building. The feedback is bright tonight, casting long shadows against the sidewalk. The kind of night where melancholy just simmers.

“The problem is, he’s got a point,” Ziwa says. They haven’t actually looked at me yet.

“Jacob?” Jacob’s never made a good point in his life. “You’re kidding.”

“It would be so much easier to think like that, though, right? Like, team over players? Upper management says stuff like that all the time. Team over players.”

“Sure, but you were friends,” I say, sitting down next to them on the stairs. “That’s gonna sting.”

They’re staring out at the neon signs across the street like I’m not even here. “Fish is a better player. You know, objectively.”

“Z, you don’t have to make yourself be okay with this. Blaseball’s, well. . . .” I trail off, because you can’t just say what it is to a player. It just makes it worse. Besides, then they do the thing Ziwa’s about to do.

“The commissioner’s doing a great job,” they say, but it doesn’t sound like they believe it, not this time.

“Richmond’s a person, it would be awful to be happy he’s gone just because he wasn’t that good at splorts. It —“ Nope, don’t finish that thought. “It’s rough for you guys when people can get traded whenever. It’s not even really trading.”

They shrug. “Tigers are good people, though. And the cell service there is okay. Better than Hellmouth.”

“Still. You’re allowed to be upset.” A bus rushes by, washing bright neon orange over our faces. “Jacob shouldn’t say things like that.”

Ziwa leans their elbows on their knees. “Why do we still hang out with Jacob, anyways?”

“I don’t even know.” Because dumping friends is vaguely complicated. “We should just, like, make a new group chat and not add him.”

“Yeah.” Ziwa’s phone buzzes, and they pull it out and smirk. They lean over to show me the screen. “Lachlan keeps sending me Shoe Thieves memes.”

I have seen this meme on regular twitter. “Shoe Thieves specifically?”

“I think he’s just not on the internet anywhere else. Our chat was like, eighty percent cute pictures of teammates.”

“Y’all are adorable.” My phone buzzes now, a text from Rose. _Check Twitter._ I do.

“Holy crap.”

“What?” Ziwa leans over my phone before I can stop them. Sees what’s trending.

I turn it off before they can see too much. It’s really too late, but still.

“I should not have seen that,” Ziwa says.

“Probably not.”

“I should go see Hobbs about legally forgetting stuff.”

“Yeah.”

Ziwa gets up, then pauses. Lightly punches my shoulder. Smirks. “We’ll be okay, Camryn. For real.” Then they tip their hat at me and walk away again.

I watch them head down the street to the bus stop, spines bouncing ever so slightly. My mom and I used to talk about them on car rides home, back when they first started playing blaseball. Mom used to tell me I should just be grateful it wasn’t me, and that I should watch what I said to them. The only thing you can do, she said, is try not to make it worse.

Scrolling through Twitter, I wonder if maybe there’s a way to make things better.


End file.
